Marjorie M. Liu

I’ll post more pictures tomorrow, but the short story is this: I encountered the sublime in the Yungang Grottoes, in Datong.  It was one of the most profound experiences of my life.  Human hands, moved by some powerful spirit, made those Buddhas — carved them, with devotion, and breathed life into the stone.

More tomorrow.

There’s a village about two minutes away (and by “village”, I mean “neighborhood”) that is a bustling haven of restaurants, shops, and apartment homes.  A lot of people who work at the airport live there, which means (and this is a local joke) it’s also home to the best looking men and women in all of Beijing.

One restaurant we visit once or twice a week is on the same street as a bathhouse, toilet store, market, hair salon, and a couple dress shops.  And when I got off the plane yesterday, starving, that was the first place I went.  You see that look on my face?  That’s the expression of someone who is exhausted, and ready to chew through a plate.

Then, this morning, I headed into downtown Beijing for my morning ritual at Starbucks.  Again, I know it might seem like a strange thing to come all the way to China, and then hang out at such an American institution, but a) it’s a good place to work, and b) the people-watching is incredible.

I received an email today from a friend who is looking for illustrators who want to work on a Chinese textbook for American students.  Here are the details:

Hello everyone,

My company, a Chinese textbook publisher, is looking for a freelance illustrator for a Chinese textbook for American students that will be in production through the end of this year. The illustrator will need to follow the previous illustrator’s style.

Each unit has 4 pages of comic-book style illustrations. In total, there are 16 units (across 2 books), so 64 pages of illustrations total. There are 6 characters and a storyline (full of mild drama because a colleague and I wrote it, and we like Asian soap operas.)

They would need to be available during Summer–Fall 2012, starting in July and ending in October. We’re willing to work with artists in China or in the U.S. (or elsewhere!) Ideally, they would be able to read Chinese so that they can understand the dialogue/passages/narration.

I’ve attached a sample from the previous textbook as a guide for the style that what we are looking for.

If you know of anyone who might be interested, or have any questions, please have them contact me at fiona.lee@betterchinese.com. We would also welcome illustrators to submit a bid for this type of work.

Thank you! Please feel free to pass on to any interested parties.

cheers,
fiona

I made it to Beijing in one piece, armed with bottles of water and a big bag of snacks. If I were an enterprising type, I would have interviewed my seatmates during the flight, written part of my novel, and contemplated the mysteries of the universe — but, instead, I used those fourteen hours to sleep, chew on pretzels, and watch Captain America.  Again.

Anyway.  Here, folks, is a glorious piece in the New Yorker on, well, the Hulk.  And, more importantly, empathy.

…ONE OF THE ONGOING PROBLEMS OF BLOCKBUSTER CINEMA THESE DAYS IS ASSUMED EMPATHY. IT’S AS IF OUR STORYTELLERS JUST PLOP A FILM IN OUR LAPS AND SAY, “HERE’S OUR MAIN CHARACTER AND WE’RE GOING TO ASSUME THAT YOU’RE INTERESTED IN THEM FOR THAT REASON ALONE. THEY’RE THE MAIN CHARACTER!” … HULK DESPISES THIS TREND. IT TENDS TO GET EVEN WORSE WHEN STORYTELLERS FALL INTO THE MARKETING-CENTRIC TRAP OF “LIKABILITY,” WHICH IS A WORD THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MAKING CHARACTERS INTERESTING. USUALLY IT’S JUST A CODE WORD USED BY EXECUTIVES WHEN THEY’RE WORRIED A CHARACTER IS “DOING BAD THINGS.” AND TO ADHERE TO THE WORRIES OF LIKABILITY IS TO THUS EMBARK ON A FOOL’S PLAY AT DRAMA.

YOU WANT REAL EMPATHY? LOOK AT THE PANTHEON OF GREAT HEROES. BEOWULF. ROBIN HOOD. SHERLOCK HOLMES. INDIANA JONES. EVEN OLD BUCKET-HEAD HIMSELF, TONY STARK. THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT THESE ICONS THAT MAKES THEM SO MUCH MORE THAN “HEROES.” THEY’RE ENGAGING. THEY’RE LIVELY. THEY’RE FLAWED. THEY’RE INTERESTING. AND FOR THE PURPOSES OF THIS DISCUSSION, THEY ARE TESTAMENTS TO THE FACT THAT EMPATHY CAN NEVER BE ASSUMED.

Empathy can never be assumed.  As a writer, that is some of the best advice you’ll ever receive — and, as a writer, the best advice that might be forgotten most quickly, especially in the heat of the moment when developing some new idea.

I’m guilty of this — rushing to write some plot-crazy wild notion, and forgetting that at the center of this notion must be a character who lives in the reader’s heart.

Never assume.  Don’t aim for mere likeability.  Make a character more than a mere word on a page.  Your goal in writing is life, and a little soul.

“Form and style is one’s voice.” – Hilton Als, on writing his novel…

Tomorrow I fly to China for two weeks, and then hustle back for work-related reasons.  It’s a long flight — fourteen hours in a tube — and for the first time in a while I didn’t pack my iPad; aka, my Kindle.  Which means I’m taking actual books with me on the plane.  Not a bad thing at all, just a little on the heavy side.

Here are the books that I hope will keep me sane:

GRAVE MERCY by Robin Lafevers
ALL FOR YOU by Lynn Kurland
An advanced reading copy of GOD SAVE THE QUEEN by Kate Locke
THE FALSE PRINCE by Jennifer Nielsen
ART& FEAR by David Bayles and Ted Orland

Also, right here, is some of the best writing advice ever.  No, really, it is.

Things I’ve been doing to keep busy: writing, reading, going to Boston…and next Tuesday, I travel to China for a couple weeks.  I’ll be back before the end of the month.  I have a signing in Boston at Comicopia on May 26th.  Actual times soon to follow.

I got to do this the other night: attend a gala at the American Museum of Natural History, which was held in the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life.  It was an extraordinary evening, more for the amazing writers who were in attendance, than anything else.  You can glimpse what it looked like below — and me, riding the subway to get there.

Also, I found this gem of advice at White Hot Truth, which poses an important question: what do you want…that you already have?

Here’s what happens when you find evidence of dreams come true in your current reality (even if it’s a stretch to do so) : you take the neediness vibe out of your aspirations, and when you’re less desperate you think more clearly and act more calmly : you muster up gratitude (and gratitude is a form of empowerment) : you might realize that you’re further along than you’ve been giving yourself credit for (hello confidence!)

That’s a beautiful way of bringing a sense of gratitude into your life that might otherwise be missing.  If nothing else, just asking yourself that question can lighten up moments that are difficult — and those always come around, in one form or another.

And thank you again, and again.  Your kindness and support have been tremendous, and I appreciate it more than I can say. It’s weird, veering from exhaustion to those moments when I forget she’s gone — and then I remember.

A dear friend just sent me this.  I don’t know where it came from, so I’ve reposted in its entirely. My apologies, though the author is Karen McNeill:

A Dog’s Purpose (from a 6 year old)

Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog’s owners, Ron, his wife Lisa , and their little boy Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.

I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn’t do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home.

As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker ‘s family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.

The little boy seemed to accept Belker’s transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker’s Death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives.

Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, ”I know why.”

Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I’d never heard a more comforting explanation. It has changed the way I try and live.

He said,”People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life — like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?” The Six-year-old continued,

”Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don’t have to stay as long.”

Live simply.

Love generously.

Care deeply.

Speak kindly.

Remember, if a dog was the teacher you would learn things like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.

Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.

Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure Ecstasy.

Take naps.

Stretch before rising.

Run, romp, and play daily.

Thrive on attention and let people touch you.

Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.

On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.

On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.

When you’re happy, dance around and wag your entire body.

Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.

Be loyal.

Never pretend to be something you’re not.

If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.

When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.

My response?  WAAHHHHHH!

I don’t even know how to write this post.  I suppose I don’t have to, but I’ve talked about Daisy so much on this blog — the “poodle” — who has been my constant companion for all these years.  Daisy, who rode on motorcycles in Taiwan, walked on the Great Wall of China, sniffed the daffodils on the Charles River, and rode on my back in her little pack with so much happiness and curiosity about life at eye level with humans.  She was born in Taiwan (she could speak three languages and had a Taiwanese passport), traveled to China via Bangkok (only Thai Airlines would allow her in Business Class), and then, after years of adventures there (she has a Chinese passport, too), came to the United States.

She had a great morning.  A really lovely morning.  We took her the West Baden Dome for a walk, and a group of sweet women pounced to ooo and ahh, and the sun was shining, and she had a nice nap on the couch.

And then she began to have trouble breathing.  It was a terrible wheeze, a rapid unnatural pant.  We took her to the vet.  He thought it might be an allergic reaction, but ten minutes later her condition deteriorated so much, so dangerously, she needed oxygen.

X-Rays revealed a massive tumor in her chest, so large and insidious it had wrapped itself around her heart and was pushing on her lungs.  It had slipped, the vet thought — slipped, and was pressing on her windpipe, choking her to death.  No surgery could have saved her.  And she really was suffocating, right before our eyes.

So, anyway, you know how the rest of this story goes.

It’s just that it happened so fast.

Daisy was a little star of love.  Life won’t be the same without her.

So, for the last four years there’s a little bird named M___* who has built her nest above the front door of the house.  I remember that first year very well — the house, actually, had just been built — it was our first spring inside it — and I recall that every day there seemed to be more and more moss accumulating “up there”, along with bits of grass, twigs, etc.  Not being the crazy cleaning type, I just let it go.  Until one day, almost without me realizing how it got there, a nest appeared.

And then, a little bird.  Who, for that first year, would nervously fly off her eggs every time we came outside.  And, sometimes, at night — when we’d take Daisy out for her last walk of the evening. We did a lot of tiptoeing.

Despite that little bird’s anxiety, her eggs eventually hatched.  It was a nice nest (the babies were a bit rowdy, but nothing serious) and eventually all the wee brats flew off and that was that.  Occasionally, we’d see them flitting around.

M___ came back the following spring, and the cycle began again.  Someone had taken down her old test, but she just built it again — fast — and before long there were little babies staring down at us every time we exited the front door.

Year three (last summer) was a little different.  The nest was still there (following strict orders not to touch it), and when M____ and her mate (oh, because he was hanging around, too) returned in the spring, they quickly made repairs and started chugging out the eggs.

Except, they banged out two nests, one right after the other, for a total (I took a head count) of ten babies.  I’d see these babies flying in little nestling flocks for the rest of the summer — all of them alighting on the same branches, flitting about through the forest.  Adorable.

Over this last winter, various local birds took up residence in the nest, and I was a little concerned that M___ and her mate would lose it to them.  That, however, was not a problem.  Our little champions came home in March, got to work, laid their eggs, and of yesterday the nest was full of baby birds.

Full.  And it wasn’t even the end of April.

The babies flew away yesterday afternoon.  I expected them to stick around  for at least another five days or so, but obviously they had different plans. Which means, quite possibly, that M___ and her mate are going to lay more eggs in a couple weeks.  And, because they’re starting so early this season, I’m betting that they may attempt a third nest.  Even if they don’t, I am in total awe of these little birds, who are the bestest, tiniest, parents ever.

Is it possible that it isn’t M___ and her mate this year, and another of her daughters has taken over?  Could be, but I think we’ll be able to tell depending on the numbers of eggs hatched this season.  A rookie putting out more than one nest?  I don’t know.  M___ had to build up to that achievement.

On a side note, we had a terrible hail storm the night before last.  One of the worst I’ve been in.  I expected windows to shatter, though thankfully that didn’t happen.  I was, however, worried about M___ and her mate.

The next morning, though, I saw them perched on the rail of the deck, together.  It’s rare to see them sitting that close to one another, but they looked at each, and then flew off in a beautiful, swooping, dance.

Love!  Flight!  More eggs!

Here’s a snapshot of the babies, just before they flew away.  And, below that, M___ or her mate.

(*at the request of the birds, identities have been changed to maintain a certain degree of privacy)

I was out by the car yesterday, taking Daisy for her afternoon “walk” (which doesn’t actually consist of much walking in the traditional sense, more like a “slow wander” — until I pick her up before she goes into the poison ivy), and while standing there I heard a strange…banging…coming from my engine.  A knocking sound, really.  A scuffle.

I’ve had squirrels in my car before.  And mice.  The mechanics at the dealership can tell you all about it.  And by “in the car” I mean that they built nests inside my car seats and in my engine, and beneath the floor in the back — and I never knew it.  At all.  And by “in the car” I also mean that once, at the dealership, the guys popped the hood and a squirrel the size of Rin Tin Tin jumped out, and ran for the hills.

So, yes, I heard a noise in my engine.  A noise that began to sound increasingly frustrated, like some chipmunk was banging two rocks against all the metal bits. For some reason, after hearing this — I decided to pop the hood and look inside.

I never actually got that far, though.  What happened is this:  I opened up the driver’s side door, hit the lever, closed the door — and when that door closed, I heard this very loud gasp/shriek/gobble that sounded like a cross between an angry wild turkey and a drunk human man caught with his pants down.

At which point, I picked Daisy up and went inside the house.

Because, a) I am not the girl who goes into the dark basement, b) I do not frolic in the forest at night, c) I do not take candy from strangers, especially strangers dressed like clowns, and d) I can take a hint.

That hint being: DO NOT LOOK BENEATH THE HOOD.  NOT UNTIL YOU GIVE WHATEVER IS INSIDE A CHANCE TO WALK AWAY.

And now, it’s time to make breakfast.

“I can’t comment on how others use social media. I can only speak on my own use of Twitter, which is: I had a cat, the cat died, and now the stuff I used to say to the cat all day, I tweet.” – Colson Whitehead

Or, as he also says in the same Publishers Weekly piece, social media is “a little company during the workday.”

That’s so true.  Just think about the life of your average, typical writer — who sits in a room, on the couch, on the bed — pretty much in isolation — working all day long at the computer.  Unless you’ve got family, friends in the house with you, or pets, you’re on your own for most of your work day.  And, for most of us, our work day doesn’t end until we’re in bed.   So, yes — we search out ways to interact with others.  Twitter (my favorite) is great for that.

I don’t do much with Facebook, admittedly.  It’s tied into my twitter account, so every time I tweet, Facebook is updated.  Easy!  I’m lazy!  I never have to sign in!

Twitter, on the other hand, is something else entirely.  Twitter, for some mysterious reason, appeals to me.  It feels like I’m having a conversation — short, punchy, short, effective — note the emphasis on short — that I can check on at various parts of the day in between the writing.  Something is always going on with Twitter — always — and that constant stream of new information is addictive, and comforting.

Question: If you use some kind of social media, either twitter or Facebook, or tumblr — what’s the appeal to you?

***

Other interesting links:

“Poor or rich, we all hate our women.” – a powerful essay about the “war on women” in the Middle East.

“In popular parlance, sheng nu refers to women above a certain age — some say 27, others 30 — who are unmarried and presumably ‘left over,’ too old to be desirable.” – a discussion about a growing trend in China: educated women who just can’t find a man.

And then, this piece of hilarity: Henri, the existential housecat…